Short story na zajĂŞcia z Written English. Panu siĂŞ podobaÂło
KrĂłtkie i moÂże momentami cienkie, ale jest kilka klawych fragmentĂłw.
Through the Sea of Death
The barbarian stood gaspingly in a vast, shadowy chamber, his back to the wall. He was tall and heavily muscled, his enormous shape badly wounded and bloodstained. Both his large hands were gripped tight around the hilt of a large battleaxe, covered with scraps of fetid remains of the rotting, undead creatures approaching him from all sides, hissing and whispering in their morbid speech. He has already slain many, piles of decomposing carcass all around him, and yet their hosts seemed unending, streaming into the hall like a river of black mud.
His brows were furrowed and teeth gritted into a fearsome grimace of cold hatred, clouds of vapor escaped his mouth as he exhaled the cold, stinking air. He bore no sign of pain nor fear. Weakness was disgraceful.
‘O great Khoum, God of War’ he muttered as the hissing and whispering was becoming louder and louder. ‘If this be thy will, take my life, but allow me to slay at least few more.’
On the wide staircase at the other end of the hall a dark figure appeared. Standing before the chamber’s altar, the man looked like a demonic priest mastering some blasphemous ceremony.
‘Your god cannot hear you, barbarian’ said a voice that could only belong to someone very old and very cruel. ‘No gods apart from the Death God, for this is his domain and his eternal kingdom.’
The barbarian smiled and there was no joy in his smile. ‘I shall make you eat these words before the sun rises.’ he said.
‘There shall be no sunrise for you, mortal. You can barely stand.’
Through pain and hatred the barbarian laughed mockingly and then there was no more talking. He raised his dreadful battleaxe high above his head and with immense strength he smashed one of his opponents as if he was a linen doll. The creature’s skull exploded, its bits and pieces flying in all directions, but before they reached the ground the barbarian had already killed two more with a single, massive stroke, blood once more splattering his scarred, tattooed flesh.
‘Feast upon him’ the figure said.
The rotting crowd moved spasmatically, empty eyes filled with ghastly glow. Swords, axes and maces twitched and risen sinisterly. Enormous barbaric battlecry filled the air, mixed with hisses and the vicious whispers and the undead army tightened around the fighter. Suddenly the hall blasted with the noise of battle.
One of the undead approached the barbarian from behind and made attempt to stab his neck, but the fighter dodged with speed and skill unnatural for someone his weight and before the creature managed to block his counterattack an iron blade ripped its way from his crotch through ribs to head, splitting him in two. Supporting the weapons momentum, the fighter hit another monster so strongly the axe was stuck between the undead warrior’s vertebrae. The barbarian released his blade with a single rapid pull, tearing his enemy apart and again, before the body hit the chamber’s stone floor, he was already searching for another foe to slay. He found one right before him and another heavy blow reached the target, but the blood soaked hilt slipped in the barbarian hands and the blade flipped so that it hit the enemy not with blade, but side. The upper part of the creature’s body flew across the chamber into the crowd of swarming vermin, his legs took few more dizzy steps before they collapsed.
Fury had already filled the barbarians heart. Anger took possession of him and the storm of hate raged within his very self. He knew not where he was or why, the unbearable amount of rage and the feeling of ineffable potency purified him from all the pain, all reason. The axe in his hands and the enemies before him were all he was aware of, apart from that there was nothing and no one. His great, massive weapon was rising and falling methodically, dealing pain and destruction, always reaching its destination. The barbarian’s every step was necessary, every gesture relevant. His muscles, sinews, bones and mind were joined together like a perfectly designed machine, he fought with all his heart and soul, with no fear nor mercy, devoted to battle like a faithful believer.
‘Alone against hordes of enemies he could not win. But he would never retreat. As to many of his kind, his prowess and courage finally brought him death. What remains is glory. And memory. ‘
‘In this dark times, when we seat here, in our warmaster’s hall, next to a fireplace, with ale in our mugs and meat on our table, we smile and laugh, we dance and we sing, for we have managed to live another day. Yet, when the sun rises, we shall leave our home, gather our steel and once again we shall greet the battlefield. And, as always, some of us shall never return.’
‘But how can we fear when our kinsman had no fear in this god forbidden chamber hidden high in the mountains to the east? How can we fear when he, our kinsman, spat in the face of death and earned his place in the meadhall of Khoum, the Lord of All Battles? There is no fear among the men of the Vardrahjall!’
‘When tomorrow they will come, and you know they will come, we will be ready. With iron in our hands we shall stand strong against the storm of time. And, in battle, in the first rays of setting sun, we shall no more even know the meaning of the word fear. For we shall remember our fallen kinsman, Trahan the Brave, fighting alone against the hordes of foes, like a ship cruising through the sea of death. ‘
